


Our Pulses Exchange

by NotTonightJosephine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Because I am Incorrigible, Bondage, Breathplay, Cliffhangers, Hair-pulling, I promise, Lingerie, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Riding Crops, Rimming, Seb is sadistic, Semi-Public Sex, Suspension, Tattoos, This one's got more stamina but he's less caring in the afterglow, and how could I forget, but turnabout is only fair, empty threats, god this dumb fic just keeps growing, kinda exhibitionism idk, one more chapter and then it'll be over, references to William Blake's The Tyger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotTonightJosephine/pseuds/NotTonightJosephine
Summary: Just as Seb was losing consciousness, Jim had murmured into the crook of his neck: "You can mark me too, you know."And hadn’t that just simmered in the back of Seb's mind ever since.





	1. Marking

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Blood for Wild Blood' by Razorlight, on their album Slipway Fires.  
> This fic is an expansion of a scene from an RP I did with PinkninjaPJ on tumblr.
> 
> Update: My eternal love [seeminglyineffable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeminglyineffable/pseuds/seeminglyineffable) commissioned the incredible Hippano to do art of this fic. Holy fucking wow. [Here](https://hippano.tumblr.com/post/170008742106/commissioned-for-pipwasreal-by-originalsappho-of) it is in all of its considerable glory. Thank you so much, both of you talented and lovely people!

After Jim had carved his initials into Seb's hip (and sucked him off, Jim's palm laid over the wound like a benediction, and the sweat and press of it making a blinding blur of pleasure-pain in Sebastian's brain) and just as Seb was losing consciousness, Jim had murmured into the crook of his neck: "You can mark me too, you know."

And hadn't that just simmered in the back of Seb's mind ever since.

He researches, he ponders, and if Jim catches Seb eyeing his body speculatively he doesn't comment on it, just preens at the attention.

 

So it's Thursday, and Seb has Jim strung up, wrists cuffed to the hook hanging from the ceiling and shifting on his tiptoes. When Seb swings the crop Jim gasps and shudders, hips thrusting into nothing, loses his footing, twists and swivels, pants and moans at the sting on his arse and the strain of his arms.

Maybe it's his torso all stretched out, or the traces of sweat and blinked-back tears but Seb is suddenly sure of what he wants.

"I'm going to mark you tonight," he says the next morning, as soon as Jim answers the phone. It's not a question, but Jim could still say no.

Instead he laughs, breathless, and asks, "What should I _wear_?"

"Something comfortable, Boss," says Seb, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "I'll pick you up at seven."

"Giacomo Moretti it is," Jim says, and hangs up.

Sure enough, at seven sharp Jim answers the door wearing a navy Armani blazer and pale grey trousers, his collarless shirt open at the throat. His cologne is something obnoxiously expensive, but lighter and more fruity than his usual. Or what passes for usual on someone who changes personality like other men change ties.

"Sebastian!" he trills, emphasis in the wrong places, teeth and eyes and slicked back hair all glinting. _Italian_ , Seb thinks. _Like the Beretta I gave him_.

Jim is sentimental like that, except when he isn't.

 

Two hours later his hand clenches into a fist on the armrest of the reclining chair.

"Un momento per favore," Jim gasps. His accent is impeccable, even through the pain.

The tattoo artist nods, green ponytail bobbing, and lays her gun down. She gently wipes the blood off his side with a towel.

"Don't move. You'd better drink something."

She doesn't know who he is, or she wouldn't dare to order him around. But nobody wants a tattoo artist with shaking hands so Seb had thought it best she remain in the dark. Luckily, Jim seems to be enjoying playacting, selecting a frosted bottle from the minibar with a suitably grateful smile. It's a sparkling fruit drink, the label entirely in Italian, and the crack and hiss as he twists the lid open is reassuring. She hands him a straw, then turns to tidy her bench. Jim hollows his cheeks to suck, letting his eyelids flutter shut, and Seb can't help but laugh.

Jim grins, and the artist turns around.

She smiles at them, stretches, and declares a fifteen minute break. "But let me know if you feel faint," she says, "that's pretty normal, it's a painful spot."

Jim does seem a little high on the pain, pupils blown and reactions slow. His hair is starting to unstick from its layer of gel and curl at his temples. He looks like a fallen angel, and as soon as they're alone Seb squeezes Jim's cock through his tailored trousers. Jim's breathing goes ragged.

Jim rocks his hips into Seb's touch, then hisses at the pain.

"All getting a bit much for you, _Giaco_?" Seb whispers, leaning in close to inhale the scent of sweat and citrus. Jim glares at Seb, then surges up to tangle his hands tight in Seb's hair. He kisses Seb hard on the mouth.

"Gaudy colouration," he murmurs, "and in atrocious," another kiss, just below Seb's cheekbone, "taste. I can't trust you with," he worries Seb's earlobe between his teeth then breathes, " _anything_."

Seb runs a thumb gently around the lower edge of the reddened skin over Jim's ribs. Half a tiger prowls there already, its shoulders high, ready to pounce, to attack or defend. It had to be on Jim's right side, because isn't Seb his red right hand? Its jaws snarl defiance, and its tail will curl up under Jim's shoulderblade, and every time Seb sees it he will remember how much he owes Jim, how much they own each other.

 _Can't trust me? What a fucking joke that is_ , Seb thinks.

"It's not coloured yet, Boss," Seb growls, "That's a whole 'nother session to look forward to. And she sure is, going on about your perfect, creamy skin. Hours and hours of just lying there and taking it like a good boy."

Jim lets go of Seb and flops back in the chair. "Sadist," he says, not at all disapproving. "And when you next have me all strung up and at your mercy… will you smile, your work to see?"

Seb smirks as he finishes the quote. "Did he who made the lamb make thee?"

"Not fucking likely," Jim snorts. His breath hitches as Seb continues to palm him, and a split second after Seb notices the mischievous glint in his eye Jim lets out a loud moan. There's a muted clatter from the next room and Seb barely has time to shift his hand to Jim's far hip before the tattoo artist rushes in.

"You alright?" she asks, hastily pulling on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

"Ah, sorry, yes," Jim says, dewy-eyed with a self-deprecating smile, like a brave little twink. 

"On your stomach then," she says, taking her seat and refilling her inkpot.

Seb strokes Jim's hip with an expression of concern that makes Jim smirk as he turns over. Seb watches in amusement as Jim shifts, trying to get comfortable. He finally settles on bending his knee a little to the side, which lifts his hip enough to take some of the pressure off his half-hard cock.

The buzzing resumes, and Jim reaches for Seb's hand. He closes his eyes, smiling beatifically as he digs his nails in.


	2. Mounting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What part," Jim pants, "of _fuck me now_ was unclear?"

Jim's quiet during the car ride home, looking small and soft and a little sleepy, leaning against the passenger side door. Subtle winces flutter his eyelids and crease his brow whenever Seb takes a corner too fast, jostling his sore ribs. Seb takes as many corners as fast as he safely can. 

He knows he should probably be gentler, that's what normal people would need. But his heart is thundering from the rush of… not _reducing_ Jim to this, Jim can't be reduced by anything. But the fact that he's letting Seb make him vulnerable. It's not just the pain, it's the loss of Jim's ability to be anybody. The permanence he's managed to avoid thus far, with a skin almost scarless, at least compared to Seb's.

At any rate, Jim doesn't seem to mind. They're barely through the front door before he has his hands tangled in Seb's shirtfront, pulling him down to press his lips to Seb's neck.

"I'm going to need you to fuck me now," he drawls, and Seb feels a thrill go through him from both the words and the return of Jim’s natural accent. _His_ Jim, clingfilm rustling softly against the fabric of his shirt with every breath, and cock hard against Seb's thigh.

"Clothes off, then, Boss," Seb says, swatting Jim's arse to make him rut forward, before shoving him away by the hips. Jim stumbles backwards a few steps, catching himself on the hallway wall. He undoes the couple of buttons he had even bothered to do up before leaving the tattoo parlour, licks his lips and turns away toward their bedroom, letting the shirt fall from his shoulders and crumple on the floor. Jim kicks off his loafers next, then pulls off his belt as he walks. He smirks over his shoulder, making sure Seb is enjoying the show, before dropping his trousers in the doorway and disappearing into their bedroom.

Seb follows, taking the time to let his fond grin fade. When he reaches the bedroom he kicks Jim's trousers aside and leans against the doorway. Jim is studying his reflection in the full-length trifold mirrors in the far corner of the room, unselfconscious in just his pants, head cocked like a curious bird.

He's only turned on a single lamp, and in the dim light the clingfilm blurs Jim's side into a mess of dark lines and smeared blood. Still, it'll be pretty when it heals, unlike the jagged letters Jim tore into Seb's hip. But pretty isn't what Seb’s with Jim for. He wants Jim wild and mindless in a way he doesn't often let himself be.

Jim meets Seb's gaze in the mirror and smiles, slow and lazy.

"On the bed," Seb orders. "Elbows and knees."

Jim laughs, delighted. "Are you going to _mount_ me, Tiger?"

"Something like that," Seb replies, which must be good enough for Jim because he crawls onto the bed and positions himself as directed, glancing back over his shoulder with an expectant eyebrow raise. Sebastian strips efficiently then settles onto the bed behind Jim.

He pulls down Jim's, or rather Giacomo's, pale blue briefs and takes a moment to admire the fading welts on Jim's arse and thighs. Seb has to agree with the tattoo artist; Jim's skin does mark up so beautifully.

There's no need to draw it out so he doesn't, simply leaning down to lick Jim's arse.

Jim shudders and arches his back, letting his head fall onto his forearms. It's not often that Seb can surprise him, which makes it all the sweeter when he does. Jim gasps in a sharp little breath, moans it out when Seb massages his perineum with his tongue.

No match for the patience of a career sniper, Jim nevertheless weathers the teasing longer than Seb was expecting, before frustration eventually gets the better of him.

"What part," Jim pants, "of _fuck me now_ was unclear?"

Seb chuckles, and pulls away long enough to roll on a condom, knowing Jim will appreciate the easier clean-up later. The slight desensitisation will make Seb last longer too, not that he has a problem with stamina thank you very much, but fucking Jim into an incoherent mess sounds delightful.

The briefs are tangled around Jim's ankles, but he spreads his legs as best he can. Seb has to spread his legs a little too, shortarse little bastard that his boss is, but it's worth it. He takes a moment to get the latex slick before pressing in. Seb knows Jim's limits, and being slowly thrust open by a well-lubed cock is nowhere near them. He runs a hand down the taut slope of Jim's back and into his hair, kneading his scalp gently with his fingertips, giving them both a minute to acclimate.

Jim shivers, breathing carefully even, but it's not long before he's clenching experimentally and grinding back against Seb, and Seb can't help but tighten his grip on Jim's hair, pull out an inch or two and slam back in, just to hear Jim moan. 

Already covered in lube as it is, it's easy enough to slip his other hand around to grab Jim’s leaking cock. Seb continues fucking him deep and hard and steady, and it's delicious, the way Jim's breath hitches, picking up, hips stuttering between the two points of friction.

But Seb wants to _see_ , so without warning he shifts his hand from Jim's hair to the base of his neck and heaves them both upright, kneeling facing the mirrors which Jim was preening in front of earlier.

"Look at you," Seb growls. Jim had made a wonderful yelp of surprise at the shift in position, and now quivers, stretched out between Seb's hands. His pulse beats rabbit-fast when Seb's calluses stroke against the sensitive skin of his throat and cock.

Through half-closed eyes Jim does survey the sight they make, pale and shadowy in the lamplight. The lazy satisfaction of his expression is belied by the taut expanse of his torso, clingfilm crinkling with every shallow, rapid inhale.

Jim's flailing hands had landed on Seb's thigh and tangled in his hair, and his grip turns desperate when Seb starts thrusting again, head rolling back against Seb's shoulder. In this position Seb's cock rubs against his prostate more often than not and Jim starts moaning and murmuring less-than-sweet nothings, a little in love with the sound of his own broken voice.

"Attaboy, Bastian," he gasps, "you fuck like you were _made_ for it…"

Seb mouths at Jim's neck, getting a little lost in the pleasure himself, in the smell of sweat and blood in the air. With all of Seb's skilled attention devoted to his pleasure, it's not long before Jim comes, silent and shuddering, over Seb's fist. The sight of him, eyes screwed shut and long throat bared and tensed, and the way his arse clenches reflexively around Seb's cock has Seb coming too, with a muffled roar.

They fall together, sideways onto the waiting pillows, Jim's fingers eventually going slack in Seb's hair. Seb shifts away, despite Jim's little noise of protest, enough to pull out and dispose of the condom. He waits until Jim cracks an eye open before licking the come off his knuckles. Jim wrinkles his nose, feigning disgust, and Seb laughs softly as he disappears into the ensuite to wash his hands and fetch a flannel.

When he returns, Jim's snoring lightly. His hair is a sweaty mess and his face is flushed and peaceful. Seb hesitates for barely half a second before pinching one of Jim's nipples. Jim starts awake, surging upright, and that's when Seb drops the damp flannel on his spent cock.

"When I kill you," Jim hisses as he wipes himself down, "I'm going to have your useless head stuffed and mounted on my library wall."

"Love you too, Boss," says Seb, and turns off the bedside lamp.


	3. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There, there," Jim says, voice sing-song and utterly devoid of sympathy. He runs a hand through Seb's hair, nails digging into his scalp. Jim's other hand, Seb notices, is stroking his own cock.
> 
> _Ah_ , he thinks, heart rate steadying. _So it's that kind of morning_.

Sebastian wakes up drowning. No, suffocating. His face is damp and smothered but it's the hands clamped over his mouth and nose, and the pressure on his chest, that mean he can't breathe. He tries to heave upward, throw the weight off, but all Jim has to do is click his tongue and Seb goes still.

"Be a good boy, now," he hears through the pounding of his pulse in his ears, and it is only when Seb nods his assent that the hands disappear, taking the wet flannel with them. He gasps for breath, squinting against the onslaught of morning light. Jim looms above him, straddling his chest, shins hard across his upper arms. It's oddly grounding.

"There, there," Jim says, voice sing-song and utterly devoid of sympathy. He runs a hand through Seb's hair, nails digging into his scalp. Jim's other hand, Seb notices, is stroking his own cock.

_Ah_ , he thinks, heart rate steadying. _So it's that kind of morning_.

"Can I?" Seb asks, voice rough from sleep. And he'd gladly die for the way Jim smiles at that.

Jim pulls Seb's head forward so he can shove another pillow behind him, and then shifts closer, knees dipping the mattress near Seb's shoulders. His arms now free to move, Seb immediately reaches up to cradle Jim's thighs and arse, pulling him in. Jim gently, almost lovingly, lays the head of his cock against Seb's lower lip.

"Go on, then," he says, running his knuckles down Seb's scarred cheek to his stubbled jaw.

Seb licks out, feeling the weight on his tongue, the heat and silken hardness. He closes his lips around the head and sucks, gently at first, then harder, pressing his tongue against the underside. Jim moans and the muscles under Seb's hands shift as he thrusts forward, rubbing against Seb's soft palate and already leaking precum. Seb tilts his head, letting Jim's cock push further in. It's not a bad angle; Jim is occasionally capable of being considerate. Maybe it's an apology of sorts for the rude awakening.

"I can _feel_ you thinking," Jim mutters, eyes closed and brow furrowed. "Stop it."

Seb huffs out a laugh but does as he's told. It's instinctual now, making Jim feel good, working out what he needs. His preferences shift from day to day, sometimes minute to minute, but Seb enjoys the familiar rhythm of trial-without-too-many-errors that has Jim coming before long.

It's not unusual for Jim to come quietly, but he doesn't even gasp when Seb pulls off slowly and swallows, or complain when Seb nuzzles the milky skin of Jim's thighs. He's half-hoping to get a rise out of Jim, for that hand to tighten in his hair again and for Jim to come out with some ridiculous threat about what fate befalls men who _dare_ inflict _beard-burn_ on _the great and terrible Moriarty_ , but Jim just blinks rapidly at the ceiling while he reboots.

"I need a shower," Jim says, abruptly pushing away from the headboard and swinging off the bed. He almost kicks Seb in the face as he goes, but still doesn't look at him.

Seb waits as long as he can, cock wilting, but the door to the ensuite doesn't reopen and the water keeps running and he has work to do, after all. He showers in the master bathroom, pulls on practical clothes and grabs a bite of breakfast, but still Jim hasn't emerged. So Seb shrugs and heads out to meet his latest spotter-in-training.

When they break for lunch Seb texts Jim _you know i've been waterboarded. a couple of times, actually_. Then, when he gets no reply, _remember to eat. and REST_.

 

It's three weeks before Jim lets Sebastian so much as touch him again.

Three weeks of being sent all over Europe for jobs, most of which Jim could surely have managed from home. Three weeks of meeting clients and informants in anonymous glass skyscrapers, freezing warehouses, stale rented office spaces, and the odd stately home. He's ordered to sleep on the couch, when Jim lets him into the flat at all. He barely sees Jim, and never away from his laptops and phones.

Of course Jim knows; Jim knows everything. And he knows exactly what he's doing to Seb. His instructions range from the mundane to the bizarre, but then again they always have. _Watch her, kill him, put the fear of me into them, buy a good camera and learn how to use it_. It feels like mindless busywork, like Jim's bored of him and just trying to wear him out before putting him down for getting too close. _Bit fucking late for that_ , Seb thinks. Nevertheless, he does as he's told. Even reads the manual cover to cover before, feeling faintly ridiculous, taking pictures of pigeons.

_just get it removed, if it bothers you so much_ , he texts Jim early one morning, after too much arak and too little sleep. Jim can spin gold out of nothing; it's not like he can't afford it.

_O ye of little faith_ , comes the surprisingly prompt reply. _Run a personal errand won't you, darling, then come find me. JM xx_. Attached is an image of a receipt from a corsetiere, the order dated two weeks ago, when Jim was still staring right through him. The scheming little cocktease.

 

Seb's showered, shaved, and sober in minutes, and within the hour he's sitting in his car, sipping at a takeaway coffee while he waits for 'Ms. Moira's Custom Corsetry Emporium' to open. It's a chilly morning, blustery with spitting rain, and he's glad to be warm and dry, with hope blooming golden in his chest.

"Fucking pathetic," Seb mutters, chastising himself. _Three weeks of nothing and then he sends a text and you've gone all gooey inside? Get a grip on yourself, Sebastian_.

But he'd rather get a grip on Jim, so when the purple-haired proprietor flips the silver sign on the door Seb's out of the car and up the stairs before she's even back behind the counter.

"Order for…" he checks the image on his phone, and almost chokes, "Jimmy?"

"And a good morning to you too," she says, with a wry smile. She pulls a long, flat box out from under the counter. Seb immediately reaches for it, but pauses when she laughs.

"Somebody's eager. D'you want a sneaky peek before I seal it?" she asks.

"Tempting," Seb replies, trying to look rueful, "But I'd better not. You know _Jimmy_ , he's pretty particular about his clothes."

"That he is," she says, cutting a long piece of ribbon and twining it around the box as she speaks. "I'm sure you'll see it soon enough anyway, he likes to put on a bit of a show when we do a fitting, the cheeky bugger."

Seb's face must show some mixture of the arousal and incredulity and amusement and jealousy he's feeling because Moira laughs again.

"You must be Bazza, right? The man he always goes on about dressing up to please?" When Seb nods mutely, she carries on. "Well, he'll look a right treat in this, don't you fret."

She finishes adjusting the bow and hands the box to him. "Pleasure to finally meet you," she says. "Tell Jimmy to give me a proper review this time, please, not just heart-eyes emojis all over the facebook page. Not that that wasn't lovely..."

Seb thanks her and exits, even makes it into the car before bursting out laughing.

He's still grinning when he turns into Conduit St and parks in their underground garage. It's only when the elevator opens onto the top floor corridor that Seb's grin falters.

The door to the penthouse is ajar. The door to the penthouse is never ajar. Being ajar defeats its purpose as the last reinforced steel line of defence against police and suicidally foolish home intruders and anyone else who might wish Jim harm.

Carefully propping the corset box against the wall next to the door, Seb pulls his pistol from its shoulder holster and uses the barrel to nudge the door open further. It swings inward and he follows warily, checking each room one by one, even the secret library. There's no blood, no signs of struggle, nothing missing as far as he can tell. Nothing except Jim.


End file.
